


The Other Side

by holy_milk



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Celegorm lives, Celegorm's POV, Easterlings, Flashbacks, Gen, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, Second Kinslaying | Sack of Doriath, but as for the rest, it can go either way, it may be a fix-it or it may be a ruin-it, so do Eluréd and Elurín, somewhat sympathetic towards the feanorions, sympathetic towards dior and nimloth as well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2020-10-29 21:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20802896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holy_milk/pseuds/holy_milk
Summary: After the Secong Kinslaying Celegorm finds himself all alone in the woods of Doriath.And then he finds someone else.





	1. Alone

The first thing he became aware was the taste of iron and dirt on his tongue.

He tried to lift a hand to wipe at his mouth but found it too heavy to even move. His whole body felt numb and unyielding.

He thought he let out a groan but heard nothing save the pulse of blood in his head. His ears were blocked. He tried to open his eyes but his eyelids refused to move, too.

How much had he drunk last night, exactly?

He passed out before he could remember.

* * *

He had hidden in a small pit between the roots of a mighty old oak – so small, in fact, that it should have been absolutely impossible for him to fit in there in the first place. His limbs had gone beyond the point of aching and were slowly going numb now, and yet he waited, motionless, soundless, buried snugly under a thick cover of half-rotten fallen leaves.

Irissë would come any minute now, and would have no idea he was there, lurking in the dark, until he bolted at her—and she would _scream her lungs out_—

He waited, patiently, but silence hung in the stuffy summer air. There was not a sound of the familliar footsteps upon the forest floor. 

There was no sound save the dull drumming of blood in his head.

* * *

He resurfaced again and was immediately hit with an acute awareness of his surroundings.

He was lying on his back, something sharp — glass? rocks? roots? — sticking painfully into the whole length of his body. There was something soft and moist covering him from head to toes, and his clothes were damp, and his skin was filthy, and he was still tasting iron—_blood_—and dirt upon his tongue.

His head was throbbing, and a dull pain was spreading across his body from somewhere below his ribs.

He must have drunk quite a ridiculous amount to pass out right in the middle of… wherever he was.

A vague worry was gnawing on the edge of his mind. He had been beastly drunk on several occasions before, and still none of them resulted in his waking up the next morning in such an odd position, with his long legs stretched rigidly beneath him and his arms crossed solemnly on his chest, clutching his dagger.

He tried flexing his fingers, one by one, and this time they moved, reluctantly.

He spent several minutes — hours? — regaining control of his limbs before he could finally lift a hand to his face and wipe the dirt from his eyes, but the effort of doing so felt immense for some reason, and soon he drifted off to sleep again.

* * *

He was rushing along the winding stone passages of Menegroth, high on the thrill in his blood, driven forth by a wild voice that chanted, drowning out all thought, _Hunt, hunt, hunt!_

His followers were lagging behind, slipping on the blood and gore. 

He paid them no heed. He had no need in followers. This hunt was his and his only. 

His heart sang out when he glimpsed a flash of raven-dark hair and blue robes in a sideway passage.

_Found you!_

* * *

When he woke up, his whole body was shivering.

There was still some painful tightening in his temples but other than that, his head felt clear for the first time since he had first woken up there on the ground — or, more precisely, _in_ the ground, for it was exactly where he was.

It was getting hard to breathe already, so he started digging himself out. He kept his eyes closed; when he had tried to open them earlier, he had got two good eyefuls of dirt that he were still stinging a little bit.

A gust of cold wind stung his face, and soon he was crawling out of the shallow pit he had been lying in for the past several hours — days? weeks? — and onto the snow that covered the hard forest floor. He shook his whole body and started wiping his face and eyes, spitting out dirt at the same time.

He opened his eyes tentatively, half ready to squint at the sunlight, but the forest around him was dusky, the sun having sunk below the canopy already. Rubbing his shoulders and arms with his hands to fight off the cold, he scanned his surroundings. The forest stood lifeless, gloomy and ominous. No matter how hard he strained his eyes and ears, he could neither see nor hear another soul.

He was alone.

He dug his fingers into the ground until it hurt and let out a shuddering breath that came out in a mist and lingered in the air. _They left me_.

It took him several minutes to notice two mounds nearby, and a couple of moments more to glance back at the pit in which he himself had been buried not so long ago.

His breath caught in his throat.

He rose to his feet and, unsteadily, made his way to the nearest of the mounds, dropping on his knees by it. His hands were shaking when he dug into the snow and the muddy soil beneath.

_No._

His fingers brushed against cold, silky skin.

* * *

On the day Carnistir was born he was unable sit down for more than two minutes straight with all the excitement bubbling up in him. When beaming Father came in to announce that they could finally go and meet their new sibling — a baby brother, just as he had hoped — he rushed to his parents’ bedroom before either of his elder brothers even had a chance to process the news.

His excitement faded away the moment Mother placed the baby in his arms.

His parents and brothers had told him, on numerous occasions, what a cute and lovely child he had been ever since his birth. Carnistir was nothing like that. He was tiny and oddly wrinkled, and instead of gazing up admiringly at his new family with his big baby eyes he was actively bawling said eyes out, his scrunched-up face going redder and redder with each passing moment.

He barely managed not to drop him on the floor before the baby was finally gently taken out of his arms. 

He then slipped into a farther corner of the room to watch his parents and elder brothers cooing over the last addition to their family from a safe distance. 

He wondered if they had all gone either blind or mad, or both.

He got used to being an elder brother and having Carnistir around, eventually, even though they were never particularly close until many years later, when, in the darkest of times, the seven of them became one once and for all.

Still, his expectations were rather low when his second younger brother came into the world.

Which is why, when little Curvo’s pale eyes locked with his for the very first time, the rush of love that clenched his heart and left him a little breathless took him completely by surprise. He wasn’t sure if it was because he had long grown up by then, or because Curvo was, in fact, the loveliest, cutest and the most perfect child he had ever laid his eyes on. But in that moment he vowed, on everything that was dear to him, that he would never let his little brother come to any harm, even if it killed him.

It was easy, after all, to give promises like that in the Blessed Realm.

* * *

Curufin’s face looked peaceful, more beautiful than he had been in years, and Caranthir hadn’t lost his characteristic frown even in death.

_In death._

He hadn’t even bothered to dig them fully out — one look at their faces was telling enough. A fresh corpse may sometimes look just like a person very deep in their sleep. Neither of them looked that way anymore.

Celegorm sat back on his heels, staring off into distance with unseeing eyes. All of a sudden he felt very, very tired.

_This was never supposed to happen._

And yet it had, and he was all alone in the middle of a hostile forest with two of his brothers lying unmistakably dead in the mound on each side of him.

Once the thought became too unbearable to keep churning in his mind, he rose to his feet slowly and staggered away.

Two dead faces haunted him as he blindly picked his way through the woods.

Someone had washed blood and gore off them, closed their eyes and braided their hair. Someone, he realized, had done the same for him.

It would have been highly unlikely for any of the surviving Doriathrim — or for orcs that would have come to ransack the fallen city — to bother to do so.

Which could only mean—

* * *

Their parents’ growing estrangement was hardest on the twins.

They were still children when Nerdanel — fed up with her husband’s ongoing feud with his half-siblings, with the Valar, with a good half of the Noldorin royal court, and with the world in general, it seemed — took up her things and left.

They were told, of course, that all of them were free to decide for themselves whether they wanted to stay with their father or go away with their mother, but in the end, the twins didn’t have much of a choice. Maitimo, Makalaurë, Tyelkormo, Carnistir and Curufinwë all stayed out of love and loyalty they had for their father. For Ambarussa, staying meant losing their mother, while following her meant parting with six people that were dearest and most important to them.

They were good enough at math to know that six was greater than one.

They still missed her greatly.

Sometimes at night, when the weight of their loss was most unbearable, they would come to their brothers seeking comfort. Usually it would be Maitimo or Makalaurë, who were both best at offering comfort and reassurance, singing lullabies and telling bedtime stories.

Sometimes it would be Carnistir, who was bad at talking but good at keeping silent, or Curufinwë, who was most like Father but less distant and preoccupied.

Occasionally it would be Tyelkormo, who never complained that his bed was way too small to fit all three of them as long as snuggling tightly against his sides seemed to bring his little brothers some comfort.

* * *

He wondered why, after all these years, Ambarussa would still seek the comfort of his bed at night.

And why would their bodies feel so little and fragile, when they had both long grown into tall and strong men?

He jerked up with a cry and caught a sight of two small figures scuttling away from him into the darkness.


	2. Children of Doriath

Night had fallen and the forest was dark. Celegorm was kneeling on the ground, straining his eyes to see past the shadows among the trees.

His body was still warm with the memory of two small bodies pressed against it.

“Who’s there?” he spoke for the first time in days, his voice coming out in an ugly croak that stung his perched throat.

Something shifted in the dark. _Orcs?_

No, foul servants of Morgoth wouldn't have left him alive for so long.

“Who’s there?” he demanded again, rising to his feet.

A soft cry came from the shadows, followed by a whispered _Hush!_.

He frowned. It might have been just a trick of his imagination but he could swear the voice sounded like it belonged to…

… a child?

_What child would venture so deep in these damned woods?_

“Show yourself!” he cried, startling himself.

The shadows didn't comply. But this time, they answered.

“You’re one of _them_…” 

The voice — unmistakably a child's voice — was shaky with fear.

He thought how brightly his must stand out against the darkness to a stranger's eyes, the distant memory of the Light of the Trees still lingering in face against all odds. The light that ever so clearly marked him as one of the Kinslayers.

“I am,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

_Not if don't try to do it first._

The shadows rustled. He still couldn't discern the figures hiding behind them.

“Where is your sword?” the child demanded.

“I don’t have one,” it was true — apparently, his brothers hadn’t thought he would need it anymore when they were burying him.

“And what is _that_?”

Celegorm looked at the dagger he was holding. It was a fine dagger. Curufin had forged as a gift for one of his begetting days — or rather for the day he had chosen to count as his begetting day here in Middle-Earth.

He tossed the dagger away, and it landed halfway between himself and the shadow. He lifted his hands above his head, showing his open palms.

“See? Show yourself, now. I’m not going to hurt you.”

For several excruciating moments, silence fell. Then, the branches and leaves rustled and two small silhouettes stepped out of the shadow.

They were elven boys, dark-haired and pale-faced. Indeed, both appeared to be children and roughly of the same age, no older than fifteen or perhaps sixteen, and very much alike, as far as he could tell. They took a couple of tentative steps forward and hovered a few feet away from him, as if ready to flee at any moment. One of them bent down to snatch his dagger. Celegorm didn’t stop him. Neither of them, even armed with a weapon, looked like a real threat to a tried and tested Noldorin warrior.

He didn’t cross the distance between them, either. Instead, he folded his arms over his chest, eyeing them with a slight frown.

“Now then, what were you doing earlier — while I was sleeping?”

The children clung to each other.

“We didn’t know you were sleeping,” one of them — the one holding his dagger — said. The other added, in a small voice, “We thought you were dying.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“And? You thought you could steal my blade or—”

“We were cold. Your body was warm.”

Celegorm blinked, staring at them. It somehow slipped his attention that neither of them was clad in a cloak.

He thought of the Marchwardens they had to fight before getting to Menegroth. All of them were wearing those grey Sindarin cloaks that shimmered ever so slightly when they caught the starlight.

The boys were trembling. Absentmindedly, he fumbled with his fibula and took off his own thick winter cloak.

“Here,” he said, offering it to the children, “it should be big enough for both of you.”

They, unsurprisingly, seemed reluctant to come anywhere near him, so he simply tossed the cloak at them. They boys recoiled but didn't flee, and, after a moment of hesitation, one of them picked the cloak from the ground. It was filthy with soil and long dried blood but none of them remarked upon it.

While they were busy huddling under the cloak, Celegorm turned away and went into the woods.

“Where are you going?” one of the boys cried after him, warily.

“To gather some wood,” he replied, not looking back. 

They needed to get a fire started. Without his cloak Celegorm could already feel the cold seeping into his bones, and he supposed he could take way more of it than these kids.

He came to a halt suddenly and turned back to look at the boys. Both had their eyes fixed on him.

“I won’t be long,” he said, “and I’ll be within earshot, so you can call me if anything happens.”

Doubt was written all over their faces. They opened their mouths as if to protest but then closed them. Their hands were fisted into the fabric of his cloak.

They nodded slowly, and he disappeared into the night.

* * *

“You can’t start a fire with damp wood,” he said with an air of a long-suffering adult explaining yet another piece of obvious truth to an ignorant child.

Except that the child in question was a Vala.

“Can’t I?” Orome asked with a glint of amusement in his eyes, and not a moment later a pile of wood at his feet kindled.

Tyelkormo frowned at the fire.

“_You_ can,” he conceded at last, “but you’re a Vala. Lowly Eldar like me can’t manipulate matter and nature like that.”

“Can’t you?” Orome raised an inquiring eybrow.

Tyelkormo blinked and poked the fire with a branch he was holding.

“You're not telling me we can?” he said dubiously.

Orome shrugged and busied himself with putting up a pot over the fire.

Once the stew was ready, they ate in silence — although Orome had no real need in such trivial things as food or sleep, he could still enjoy sharing a meal with one of his Eldarin followers occasionally — and sang afterwards. Or, rather, Orome sang while Tyelkormo sat uncharacteristically quiet and thoughtful, watching the fire intently.

“Orome,” he said when the Vala finished his song.

“Hmm?”

"The thing you did with the fire — can you teach me that?"

Orome gave him a wide, toothy grin.

“That I can, Child.”

* * *

He marveled at how easily he managed to kindle the brushwood he had gathered in the woods. The children looked utterly amazed, so much so that they seemed to have forgotten their fear of him — at least partly.

They shifted closer to the fire, reaching out their hands towards it, little smiles spreading over their faces. In this new light, Celegorm was finally able to get a better look at them. The boys were fair, although sunken with hunger and exhaustion, and almost uncannily identical. _Twins_, he guessed.

They also seemed vaguely familiar. Perhaps he had slain their parents in battle?

He started calling to mind the faces of the Sindar who had died under his blade but thought better of it. That would take him a good couple of hours.

“What are your names?” he asked, instead.

The children stared at him, going tense.

“What is yours?” they asked in unison. Celegorm shuddered. It was something Ambarussa would often do when they were younger.

He pondered on what to say for a moment. They already knew he was a Noldo, of course, but how much had they made out of his true identity? They might be willing enough to trust — eventually — someone they thought was a regular soldier, but the name of one of the sons of Feanor would probably send them fleeing.

And they didn’t look like they could last long on their own.

“I'm Argon,” he said at last.

The children exchanged glances. One of them — the one who had snatched his dagger earlier — gave the other a little shrug and a nod, then turned back to face him.

“I’m Beleg,” he said.

“And I’m Mablung,” the other followed.

Celegorm threw his head back and laughed despite himself. _Well, it is only fair,_ he thought. The boys stared at him in alarm, strartled by his sudden outburst, but they seemed nowhere near as scared of him as they had been before.

He sat cross-legged by the fire, cradling his face with his hands, and watched the flames, unmoving, pondering on what to do next.

They had fire — now they needed food. He still had very little idea how much time, exactly, had passed since his last meal, but judging by the loud rumble of his stomach that had accompanied his wood gathering a while ago, it had been a long time indeed. The thought of returning back to Menegroth and plundering its kitchens and pantries was tempting but he chased it away. Their attack had opened the gates of Doriath for all sorts of nasty people, and there was no way he could take on a whole bunch of orcs or outlaws all on his own, especially in the state he was in. The forest could offer very little in terms of gathering during the winter — he couldn't help but find it ironic that it had been _him_ who had insisted they should attack Doriath exactly at this time of the year instead of waiting for the spring — but he could still hope to bring down some game. There had been occasions throughout his life when he had to make do with less resources and poorer choices of weapon than his dagger.

He glanced at the twins across the fire. They were still huddling together under his cloak and whispering to each other quietly. His dagger lay on the ground, forgotten.

They did, however, notice him reaching out for it and cried out in alarm immediately.

“Shush,” he waved them off, irritated, “I can't hunt with my bare hands.”

They were once again looking at him with fear. Celegorm started to feel irritated.

“If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t need a blade to do that,” he snapped and bit his lip immediately. It was a horrible thing to say to two terrified children.

So he sheathed the dagger and dropped to his knees, outstretching his arms in what he hoped looked like a placating gesture.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I'm not going to hurt you, alright? I’m an Elda, for Eru’s sake, not a damned orc. We don’t hurt _children_.”

The boys suddenly stopped trembling with fear, their faces taking on a weird expression.

Celegorm felt uneasy.

“Your friends didn't seem to think so,” one of them — _Beleg_ — said quietly.

Celegorm frowned.

“What are you talking about?”

“How do you think we wound up here in the first place?” Mablung’s voice was no more than a whisper.

Celegorm opened his mouth, then shut it. 

They were very deep in the woods. The trees here grew dark and ominous, and the shadows were deep and thick. They had come to Doriath at dusk, so he had some idea of what the woods near Menegroth looked like in the light of stars and the Moon.

They looked nothing like this place.

_What child would venture so deep in these damned woods?_

He shook his head.

“They couldn’t have—”

“They took us out into the woods,” Beleg said, “and they left us here to die.”

Celegorm froze. The children were watching him with coldly, something bright and dangerous shining behind their eyes.

“It can't be”, he said.

It was one thing to kill a Marchwarden standing between you and your rightful heirloom. It was one thing to grant a swift death to an equal in a fair battle. It was one thing to take vengeance on someone who had mocked your pleadings and humiliated your family.

Abandoning _children_ in the middle of woods, abandoning them to a long, agonizing torment as they either freeze or starve to death, was another thing completely.

He jumped to his feet and started pacing, his fists clenched at his sides. The boys didn't flinch this time.

“Who did that?” he croaked suddenly.

The twins dropped their gazes and sighed, sagging a little against each other. Now they just looked like two small, tired children.

“We don’t know,” Mablung said, quietly, and Beleg added, “They didn’t give us their names.”

Celegorm passed a hand over his face and took a breath to calm himself.

Could any of his brothers be capable of doing such a vile thing? Could any of their followers?

“Did they say anything at all?” he asked quietly. “Before…”

“They…” Mablung started uncertainly and looked at his twin, furrowing his brow.

Beleg nodded gloomily.

“They said, ‘This is for our Lord Celegorm’.”


	3. Wild Rabbits

His could feel his followers thirsting for battle but he signaled to them to stay back - and Dior did just the same.

For several agonizing moments they stood there, facing each other, swords drawn and ready to swing, paying no attention to their soldiers - Noldor and Sindar alike - shifting uneasily in the shadows behind them. He watched Dior hungrily, savouring every detail. The king of Doriath didn't just bear resemblance to Luthien - he was her spitting image, from his long slender form to his fair face, to his long raven-dark hair that had been braided back in a hurried preparation for battle. 

He tried to imagine him with his hair flowing freely over the length of his spine and his chest, and something stirred deep in the pit of his stomach at the thought. 

For a moment, it was as if he was back in the woods of Nargothrond, drowning in the gold and lush green of the scenery, enchanted by the nightingale that had brought with her the promise of light and healing.

He blinked and he found himself once again in the stifling, dark passages of Menegroth, and the only promise he had now was one of blood and death.

“Stay back,” he croaked, not tearing his eyes from the king of Doriath, “he’s mine.”

He saw rather than heard Dior echoing his words.

* * *

Celegorm awoke with a start and leapt to his feet immediately, his hand flying to the hilt of his dagger - but no foe charged at him from out of the shadows.

He took a breath to steady himself, blinking away the heavy dream. The fire had gone out and the sky - or, at least, what he could see of it through the branches - was turning a beautiful shade of blue, slightly streaked with pink. He must have been asleep for quite a while.

He cursed under his breath as he stretched and rubbed his stiff arms and legs. It wouldn't be the first time he let himself wander the paths of dreams during his watch - it was one of the advantages Eldar had over their mortal siblings, after all - the ability to sleep and even dream while staying alert and aware of one's surroundings. But it was the first time he got so lost in his dream that he forgot where he was.

Perhaps the cold and the hunger had finally got the best of him. Perhaps...

The woods around him stood dark and ominous even as the pale morning sun shone upon them.

Celegorm shuddered despite himself and glanced at the children. They lay by the fire, exactly where he remembered them lying the night before, still wrapped in his filthy winter cloak and clinging to each other even in their sleep. One of them was frowning slighltly and the other had his face scrunched up in an unhappy grimace, and both slept with their eyes closed.

That was unusual for Eldarin children, especially in the middle of a forest full of shadows and foes lurking in them, especially in the company of a Kinslayer.

Perhaps he shouldn't read too much into that. Perhaps the Sindar, having got accustomed to living far away and secure from war and bloodshed, had slid into habit of allowing themselves to dwell just a bit further in their slumber. Perhaps they had adopted a habit or two of the Men they had grown so fond of.

Celegorm went to crouch down beside them, hesitating only a little before he shook them by the shoulders.

“The sun’s up,” he said as they stirred and rubbed their eyes, “we’d better get going.”

“Going where?” one of the boys asked sleepily.

Celegorm thought about it for a second.

“We'll have to figure it out," he said.

* * *

"Do you by any chance happen to know where we are?" he asked, uncertainly, once they had finished covering up the traces of their little camp. It didn't seem that there were any orcs lurking nearby, but still, he prefered not to take any chances.

Beleg and Mablung gave their surroindings a thoughtful look.

"No," Beleg concuded firmly. "We used to go walking in the woods around Menegroth in spring and summer but it doesn't look anything like those woods."

"I don't like it here," Mablung added in a small voice, scrunching up his face again.

Celegorm felt strangely comforted at his words. If even these boys felt uneasy here, then at least it had nothing to do with him being a kinslayer.

"Someone needs to climb a tree", Beleg said, "to have a look around."

He exchanged glances with his twin, and the two turned their heads simultaneously to peer at Celegorm. He shifted from one foot to the other.

"What?" he said awkwardly.

Beleg raised his eyebrows.

"Well, it can't be one of us."

That was reasonable enough. Small as the boys there, they could hardly reach any of the lowest branches, let alone climb all the way to the top.

Celegorm bit his lip, examining the trees around them critically, and then went to the one he thought must be the tallest one. He threw his head back, squinting at the thick sturdy branches and the trunk that went on and on. He rubbed his hands together and flexed his fingers. The boys were watching him, curious.

At last, Mablung gasped and nudged his brother with his elbow.

"He's _afraid_!" he whispered heatedly as Beleg sneered.

"No, I'm not," Celegorm protested, knowing the moment the words left his mouth that nobody would believe him. He glared at the twins, who at least had the sense to stop smirking at him so openly. "I'm just... I haven't done it in a while, that's all."

The children looked at him with amusement but said nothing. He sighed. _Brats_.

"Wait here," he said with resignation and pulled himself up to one of the lower-hanging branches.

By the time he reached the top of the tree he had started sweating despite the cold. It took him a couple of moments and a couple of deep breaths to pull himself together. He didn't dare to look at his feet or think about the climb down, the thought of it alone making him dizzy. Instead, he took a long look around.

The tree he had chosen was indeed the tallest one, and around him stretched a dark sea of swaying tree-tops. In the west, east and south It seemed to stretch on forever. In the north, dark peaks loomed over it, bathed in gloomy mist and shadows.

He sucked in a breath. So that's what the problem was with these damned woods.

He half climbed, half slid down the trunk. The boys jumped to their feet at the sound of rustling among the branches.

"So?" Beleg asked, impatient. "What did you see?"

Celegorm waved a weary hand at him, imploring him to stop talking. He leaned against the trunk and closed his eyes, catching his breath. His knees were still slightly trembling.

"We're a league away from Nan Dungortheb," he said at last, pointing northwards. 

The boys went pale at the name.

"But we're safe here, aren't we?" Mablung glanced at the shadows still lurking among the trees, alarmed.

"No," Beleg said quietly before Celegorm could open his mouth to respond. "There is no Girdle to keep them out anymore."

Celegorm watched as Mablung squeezed his brother's hand in his. He unsheathed his dagger, the weapon's weight comforting and reassuring.

"Come," he said, "we'll go south."

* * *

"It won't come out," Telvo complained, pouting, as he looked up at his elder brother.

He was kneeling by his twin, who was lying flat on his stomach on the ground and had his arm shoved into a rabbit-hole up to his shoulder.

"Of course it won't!" Tyelkormo exclaimed as he grabbed his brothers by the collars and yanked them both away. "Would you like it if two boneheaded morons started groping you with their stinky hands?"

"We just wanted to pet it!" Telvo protested, indignant, just as Pityo mumbled under his breath, "_You_ stink."

"I heard that," Tyelkormo shook a finger at him.

He let out a sigh, dragging a hand through his hair and looking down at his dishevelled little brothers.

"Alright," he said at last. "I'll get you a bunny to play with, but you'll have to step back and be quiet - I said _quiet_," he rolled his eyes as the twins let out an excited whoop, "honestly, you two are an embarassment. Have you at least thought of bringing a treat?" Pityo reached out the hand he had shoved in the hole earlier and uncurled his fingers, revealing a small carrot. Tyelkormo took it. "Good. Now, go hide behind that bush. It won't come out while you monsters are still lurking nearby."

Having made sure that the twins wouldn't scare the poor animal, Tyelkormo crouched down by the hole and did the trick Orome had taught him once, when he himself was around Ambarussa's age (although much more sensible and less obnoxious). He put his lips together and started sucking in, producing quite a nasty-sounding high-pitched squealing that was supposed to be the imitation of a rabbit calling its fellows. The twins started giggling behind the bush but he only gave them a reprimanding look.

Soon enough, a pair of long ears followed by a pair of curious beady eyes emerged from the hole. Tyelkormo promptly waved the carrot before the bunny's face to lure it a bit farther out and, once the animal accepted the treat, started stroking its fur gently.

"Come here," he called quietly, looking up at the bush.

The boys approached him, carefully treading on the cover of fallen leaves so as not to startle the bunny - they actually could be very quiet when they wanted to. The sat together for a while, the twins cooing softly over their newfound furry friend and Tyelkormo watching the two of them with a grudging fondness.

* * *

Mablung and Beleg sat on the ground, fondling a small white rabbit that sat contentedly in Beleg's lap, enjoying itself. They didn't seem to notice Celegorm approaching them and looked up with a start when he spoke.

"You shouldn't play with your food."

They were looking at him with wide, bright eyes.

"But it's so small and cute," Mablung's lip started to tremble, "can't you hunt something else?"

Celegorm bit back an exasperated sigh.

"All animals I can hunt with no weapon but a dagger are small and cute, boy," he said instead. "We'll end up starving to death."

He picked up the rabbit by the scruff of its neck. The animal let out a disgruntled squeal and he rocked it soothingly in his arms. The twins were watching him closely.

Beleg, who had been quiet until now, let out a muffled sob.

"It won't suffer," Celegorm promised as he turned to walk a bit further away, so that the children wouldn't have to see him kill and skin their meal.

* * *

“Do you know much about animals?"

In the end, he did overcook the meat, so it turned out to be both dry and bland, the latter being the result of him not carrying any salt or spices into battle. Still, even if it wasn’t very pleasing to his palate, Celegorm definitely felt much better for having it in his stomach.

“Why?” Beleg asked.

“It seemed that you knew what you were doing when you were luring that rabbit out."

“Oh.”

A shadow passed over the boys' faces.

“Mother taught us,” Mablung said, dropping his gaze.

"What was she like?" Celegorm asked before he could stop himself.

He bit his lip and cursed himself in his mind as the twins looked at him with astonishment. He didn't really expect them to respond and was taken aback by Mablung's answer.

"She was kind and beautiful," he said musingly, staring into the distance. Beleg hugged his knees to his chest and was looking at his twin with sadness. "She liked to dance and to hunt, and she often took us into the woods with her."

"She liked to sing, too, even though she was horrible at it," Beleg put in, and Mablung stared at him for a moment. Then, suddenly, the two giggled shyly, as if they weren't sure they were allowed to.

"She showed us plants and berries, and birds, and animals, and taught us all of their names," Mablung said and looked at Celegorm.

Celegorm cast his gaze down at his open palms the moment he noticed the tears standing in the boy's eyes. Something tugged painfully at his chest.

"Perhaps-" he said hoarsely and cleared his throat, "perhaps she's still alive. Perhaps we can find her if we-"

"No," Beleg said with a grim conviction as Mablung turned away hastily to wipe at his eyes. "She's dead."

* * *

Once they had somewhat filled their stomachs, Celegorm urged them to get going again. He was itching to get as far away from these parts as possible.

They walked on in silence. Celegorm had not enjoyed their earlier talk again and decided that it would be much better to not ask them any sorts of personal questions ever again, especially about their family, especially since he might have had a hand in their slaying.

He didn't know what the boys were thinking but they seemed just as disinclined to talk to him. They were awfully quiet, too. 

He looked over his shoulder to steal a glance at them. Their pale faces were set, their bloodless lips pressed together into a thin line. Just as he was looking at them, their eyes flashed with a bright fire.

Apparently, they had no difficulty switching to mindspeak when they wanted to keep their conversation safe from prying ears.

Celegorm turned away and focused on the brisk, comforting rhythm of his steps until it was the only thing occupying his mind.

* * *

He was growing tired but so was Dior.

Their fighting was ruthless and desperate, each blow aimed to kill. His followers and Dior’s soldiers formed a neat circle around them, awed and mesmerized by this strange dance of death and blood, not daring to interfere.

So far, Dior hadn't even scratched him but that did not surprise Celegorm - he did, after all, have centuries of brutal practice on his hands. What was truly baffling - and frustrating - to him was the fact that he hadn't managed to lay a single blow on Dior, either.

Something was deeply wrong with Dior. He was supposed to be no more than an adolescent by Eldarin standards, and yet he looked nothing like it.

At least, he was growing tired.

Suddenly, Celegorm heard a woman’s cry and a familiar voice barking ‘Make way!’ at his followers. He hesitated for a split second, his attention drawn to the sound, and that moment's hesitationg might have easily cost him his life - but Dior didn't deal him a mortal blow. The king of Doriath froze, pale-faced and wide-eyed, looking just over his shoulder.

“Nimloth!” he cried out desperately.

Celegorm followed his gaze and saw Curufin, caked with blood and dirt, grim-looking as he pressed a dagger to a fair-haired woman’s throat.

“Surrender!" he barked at Dior. "And return the Silmaril to its rightful owners - or else-!"

The woman's face was set, her lips pressed into a thin line as she locked eyes with Dior. Then, she gave him a small smile. Clad in light grey, almost silvery clothes, her pale face framed by fair locks that had escaped a messy knot on the top of her head, she stood out against the dark crowd of Feanorian followers like a star stands out against the night sky.

She lay her eyes on Celegorm for a moment and he turned away, unable to bear her gaze.

Dior gave Curufin a look of utmost distaste. His breathing was heavy and ragged, and sweat glistened on his brow in the light of torches.

"I don't have it," he said.

Curufin made a disbelieveing noise in the back of his throat. 

"Do you take me for a fool, Eluchil? You think I'll believe that after all the trouble you've gone to to keep it, you would just forsake it?" 

Dior's lips twitched.

"He's telling the truth," the woman spoke suddenly. Her voice was high and cool, and only slightly trembling. Taken aback, Celegorm glanced over his shoulder at her. She was looking his brother right in the eye, brave and composed. "He doesn't have it, because I took it from him."

Curufin's face darkened.

"_Where_ is it, then?" he hissed threateningly. 

The woman shrugged and smiled.

"Wherever it is, it should be well out of your reach by now."

Heavy silence fell upon the hall. Celegorm felt blood rushing to his head and he swayed on his feet.

_Out of reach..._

He heard his brother sucking in a breath.

"In that case," Curufin said, his voice shaking, "we have no other reason to keep you alive."

And he slit her white throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took forever to edit, but here we are at last.
> 
> By the way, now that we're three chapters in, do you have any idea where this is all going? I'd love to hear your thoughts.


	4. Not Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't abandoned this story! And I have no intention of doing so, I've just been really busy lately.

The baby felt warm and vulnerable in his arms.

“He takes after Father and I,” he heard Curufinwë saying with a hint of badly concealed pride, “although the nose is definitely his mother’s. And his eyes— in fact, I think they remind me of you.”

Doubtful, Tyelkormo squinted at his nephew. Tyelpë’s was gazing up at him with his hazy pale eyes, sleepy as he was already starting to doze off. He didn’t see any resemblance but decided not to say anything to his brother.

He touched the baby’s soft cheek gingerly with his knuckles, and Tyelpë let out a small squeak, reaching out to grab a fistful of his hair. 

“What do you think?” Curufinwë asked eagerly, and Tyelkormo was surprised at the anxiousness in his voice.

“He has a strong grip,” Tyelkormo winced as the tiny fist tugged at his hair, “but all in all, he’s a lovely baby. I like him.”

He heard Curufinwë let out a relieved sigh and lifted his head to give his brother a suspicious look.

“You haven’t brought me here to _evaluate_ your son, have you?”

“Of course not,” Curufinwe’s tone clearly suggested he had. He hesitated a little bit before adding, “But I’m glad you like him.”

Tyelkormo shook his head exasperatedly. 

“I’m so sorry, little one,” he cooed to Tyelpë, “I can leave whenever I want, but you’ll be stuck with my brother for a very long time now.”

He heard Curufinwë making sounds of protest and dropped his head lower to let the cascade of his hair hide his amused smile.

* * *

“Argon—”

Tyelpë’s little face dissolved into the crisp winter air, and Celegorm shook his head, clearing his vision. The unwelcoming woods of Doriath loomed over him again.

“Argon!”

“What?” he barked, spinning on his heels.

The Sindarin twins were lagging behind. They were even thinner than when he had first met them, their faces grey and sunken, and there were dark shadows beneath their eyes.

“Can’t we stop?” Beleg asked almost pleadingly.

Celegorm sucked in a breath.

“It will be a third time today,” he pointed out, displeased.

“Please. We’re tired.”

He sighed. He could see the children were on their last legs, yet he could almost sense the fragile traces of Melian’s enchantment in the air. The border of Doriath was near.

“Just a little more,” he said, his face softening. “Can you hold on just a little more? Then we’ll eat and rest.”

He waited for the boys to catch up with him, and they went on.

“How come you never need rest?” Beleg asked a moment later, sounding annoyed and a little envious. “Or sleep?”

Celegorm shrugged. He was trying to make his long strides match the boys’ shorter ones.

“I sleep while I walk.”

He heard Beleg hem and looked over his shoulder to quirk an eyebrow at the boy.

“You can’t sleep while walking. You need to lie down and have your eyes closed.”

“At your age, perhaps. It gets redundant once you grow up and learn to properly control your fea and hroa. Surely your parents,” he felt a twinge of guilt at those words but decided to ignore it, “dreamt with their eyes open?”

“Our parents always slept in their beds. At night, with their eyes closed. Just like us.”

Celegorm frowned. Those boys’ family must have been a really odd one, he thought.

* * *

He stared intently at the patch of silver light on the ceiling, willing himself to lie completely still as he listened to his father’s soft, lulling voice. 

“Now take a deep breath and relax. Focus on your breathing and what you feel in your body.”

His outstretched legs were heavy, and his toes were starting to feel chilly. He felt the urge to roll over onto his stomach but fought it, focusing all his attention on the slow rhythmic roll of his chest. Suddenly, it felt difficult to breathe.

“Clear your mind.”

Tyelkormo exhaled, willing his mind to go completely blank. He could feel thoughts swarming chaotically on the edge of his mind and he ignored them stubbornly.

“Notice your surroundings.”

His bedroom smelled of clean sheets, soap and the spring flowers his mother had put in a vase on the windowsill. The smells pricked at his nose, making it itch. The curtains rustled softly, stirred by little wafts of wind. Somewhere outside, water dripped slowly on the hard ground. 

_Drip, drip, drip._

Under a while, the sound became unbearable.

“Imagine yourself standing on a wide path through the woods that goes on and on, and on—”

He could almost picture the woods and the path, but the constant _drip, drip, drip_ kept him firmly anchored to the confinement of his bed. 

“Let your mind wander on the path—"

What could be dripping? he wondered. There was no laundry hung outside to dry and it hadn’t rained in weeks, which is why his mother had asked him to water some plants in the garden earlier today, and if she hadn’t asked him to do that, he wouldn’t have ended up shoving a handful of mud into Carnistir’s face—

He remembered that he was supposed to clear his mind of all thoughts, but it was too late. All he could see now was the red, sputtering face of his little brother.

Tyelkormo sat up and shook his head violently, banishing the vision. 

His father sighed.

“It’s alright,” he said. Tyelkormo shuddered despite himself at the hint of disappointment in his voice, “we’ll try again tomorrow.”

Fëanáro bent over to press a light kiss to his son’s brow, bade him good night and left.

* * *

Celegorm didn’t share the boys’ joy when they stepped onto the old Elven path.

“We don’t know who may be prowling about these parts,” he warned them.

The answer presented itself sooner than he wished.

The path passed a large, round clearing, where the king of Doriath must have once held his feasts. Now, however, it was littered with dozens of bodies. Half of them belonged to Elves, and the other—

“Are those Orcs?” Mablung breathed out, dismayed. It dawned on Celegorm that those Sindarin children had never seen an Orc in their lives.

“No,” he replied abruptly. “Stay back.”

Unsheathing his dagger and making sure that the boys obeyed his order, he stepped into the clearing. The bodies lay motionless and soundless and gave no signs of life when he approached them.

He bent over to examine the two bodies that were closest to him. The first belonged to an elleth with ruddy hair and green eyes, staring blindly into the sky. She was short and lean, and her cloak was of a light grey colour that would blend in almost perfectly with the scenery if it hadn’t been soaked in blood. 

On her right, with his hands still pressed to the wound on his stomach and his face distorted by agony, lay a swarthy Man with an unkempt mane of dark hair and a beard, both streaked with ashy gray. 

Celegorm was horrible at telling Men apart most of the time, but the memory of Ulfang’s treacherous breed had been forever seared into his mind.

"Who are they?" he heard Beleg calling from behind.

"Green-elves," Celegorm replied, tearing his eyes away from the man, “and Easterlings.” 

He went back to the elleth and closed her eyes, wishing her some peace and a safe passage to the Halls. Then, he took off her cloak and started searching the body. He could find no weapons, but there was a hank of rope hanging from her belt, which Celegorm didn’t hesitate to take.

“Stop it!” he heard a weak cry from where the twins stood, still in the shadow of the woods.

He looked over his shoulder to find Mablung, ever the shy and quiet one, glaring at him with eyes full of helpless anger, his fists clenched at his sides. 

He raised his eyebrows at the boy.

“What?” he asked dryly. 

Beleg, his eyes going wide with fear, put a placating hand on his brother’s shoulder, but Mablung shook it off. 

“You can’t do that!” he hissed, choking with anger. “They’re people!”

Celegorm cast a look around the clearing.

"Dead people," he pointed out.

“You have no right to steal from them!”

Mablung's words rang in the air, and heavy silence fell over the clearing. Beleg hovered at his brother’s side, shifting his dismayed gaze between the two of them. Despite the cold, Celegorm felt his face getting hot.

“The dead have no use for rope and weapons,” he said slowly, forcing his voice to sound calm, “we do, unless you wish to join them soon.”

They stared each other dead in the eye, Mablung’s face going paler with each passing moment.

Then, before any of them could say a word, he spun on his heels and ran.

For a long, excruciating moment Beleg and Celegorm stared at his retreating back, frozen to the spot. Then Celegorm spat out a curse and sprang after him, grabbing Beleg’s hand as he passed the boy. 

Mablung, small and tired as he was, was not an exceptionally fast runner. His brother, Celegorm soon realized, was an even slower one. 

“Try to keep up,” he ordered briskly, letting go of the boy’s hand.

Beleg let out an alarmed cry, but Celegorm was already tearing along after the small, blurry silhouette.

* * *

With no one to slow him down, Celegorm caught up with Mablung soon enough. 

The boy stood leaning against a wood trunk with his hands on his knees as he was trying to catch his breath. Celegorm strolled over to him, not even slightly out of breath, and grabbed him roughly by the shoulders.

“You _fool_—” he hissed, not even trying to keep the rage out of his voice anymore. “Are you out of your mind?! There’s a band of ruthless murderers roaming these woods, and you—”

He trailed off, seeing Mablung’s lips tremble. He had three younger brothers and a nephew. He knew that look well enough. 

He sank to his knees just in time to pull the boy closer before he burst into tears. Celegorm patted his back awkwardly as Mablung dug his fingers into the fabric of his tunic, wailing uncontrollably into the crook of his neck. 

“It’s alright,” Celegorm murmured, his anger washed away by the sudden onslaught of the child’s tears. 

They stood like that for what seemed like ages before Mablung’s wails were replaced by quiet sobs and Celegorm pulled him away, gently but firmly.

“I know you’re scared,” he said softly, looking into the boy’s red-rimmed eyes, “and you have every right to be. I’m sorry for what you’ve been through—,” Celegorm sighed, his words catching in his throat, “for what we’ve put you through—I truly am. It was never supposed to end like this.”

He fell silent, waiting for a reply, but Mablung said nothing. He stopped crying altogether and was only hiccupping quietly. 

“I’ll do what I can to protect you, but you’ll have to listen to me and do as I say. Do you understand?”

Mablung nodded slowly and raised a hand to wipe away his tears, leaving dark smudges on his cheeks. Celegorm felt something tugging painfully at his chest.

“Good,” he rose to his feet, outstretching his hand. The boy hesitated but took the offered hand sheepishly. “Now, I had to leave your brother alone in the woods, we’ll need to find him—”

Just then, a child’s cry rang out in the crisp winter air, and Celegorm felt his heart sink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been reminded recently that Elves can actually replenish their energy by going into some kind of trance instead of lying down with their eyes closed for 8 hours straight, like Men. Then I made up this headcanon about Elves having to be taught how to do the thing rather than being born with the knowledge, and then I thought, "Who would be the most likely to have difficulty learning how to meditate?" Well, we all know the answer now.
> 
> Why do the Elu-twins sleep in the lame Mannish manner instead of the cool Elvish one, and why do they claim that's what their parents have done all along? I have some guesses but we'll have to see.
> 
> (Not such a) fun fact: it took me, what, more than a month to write this chapter? And then I sat down to edit it and got a little carried away, so the chapter you've just read actually has almost nothing in common with the chapter I wrote originally.

**Author's Note:**

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